


Hand In Glove

by coloursflyaway



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Character Death, M/M, a lot of rather messed up thinking, mentions of autoerotic asphyxiation, pretty much what it says on the tin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:24:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloursflyaway/pseuds/coloursflyaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org:<br/>Will has for a long time fantasized about erotic asphyxiation, not just normal, consensual erotic asphyxiation either, but dying from it. These days though it’s become different, it’s no longer something he fantasizes about doing alone. Will wants to be strangled to death, slowly, erotically, sensually and he wants Hannibal to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand In Glove

It had all started with a girl, and maybe that was what scares Will the most, that it had all started with a girl, a dead girl, a dead, young girl (only a year or so older than Abigail, his terrible, terrified mind adds with ease). She should have been a victim just like every other, laid out on the ground in some abandoned building site, and although she had been dead, violated in more than just one way, Will still remembers that the first thing he had thought was how peaceful she looked.  
He had shied away from the thought back then, tried to convince himself that it was because her murderer had made sure she looked like she was only sleeping, with her head turned to face her upturned palm, her body almost relaxed even though it was broken, but even then he had known, deep down in some corner of his mind, that it had been her, and her alone.  
And she had been pretty, Will remembers that too, so very pretty, with a white gown which almost matched the colour of her skin and her fine, blonde hair, making her look ethereal, pure, with pretty, elegant hands and a pretty face, and yet what Will had found prettiest had been the redpurpleblue bruises around her neck.  
It’s been years and although he cannot name the colour, he still sees it when he closes his eyes and concentrates enough.

And that was how it had started, because that night he had went to bed expecting nightmares and instead had woken up more relaxed than he had been for a long time. Not that he hadn’t been dreaming, and not that the dreams hadn’t been full of murder and dying gasps, but this time they had been his own instead of the girl’s, as long-fingered, cruel hands had squeezed the life out of him, and he had let go, completely, had allowed himself to take a last breath which he wouldn’t be able to exhale, and somehow knowing that had made it even better.

It is his last, true secret, stored away in the darkest, most twisted corner of his dark, twisted mind which he hardly visits, and yet he finds himself there more and more often, with every crime scene Jack drags him to, with every man or woman he has to lend his voice, has to allow to become him. His job is choking the life out of him, and he wants to let it happen, and it is a frightening, frightening thought.  
It is even more frightening to see how much more vivid the fantasied become (for they aren’t only dreams anymore, there are thoughts and pictures and imagined feelings ghosting through his head while he is awake as well, keeping him grounded). There are at least a dozen scenarios by now, belts and hands and pipes, collars and ropes and nooses, and that would be almost familiar by now, but of late they aren’t just a string of unrelated little glimpses of something he wants so desperately, instead they gain a shared trait. Something is connecting them, or rather someone is.

At first, Will hadn’t noticed how the hands holding the soft, unforgiving velvet cord had changed while he had been asleep, or how it had been the same pair of hands now crushing him against a warm, living chest while they cut his air supply off with an iron bar or had fitted the noose around his neck. He hadn’t noticed for what he thinks now has to have been weeks, not until one night there had been no tool, just hands and for the first time the man holding him down hadn’t been a shadow, but as detailed as the way he curled his fingers around Will’s neck, pressed one thumb against his pulse point.  
He had woken up less rested, but sweaty and hard, breathing heavily through his nose as he tried to think of a way he could tell Doctor Lecter that he had been dreaming of how he killed him.

Before long, they had all turned to Doctor Lecter, to _Hannibal_ (because there are only so many times one can wake from a dream about a person hard and aching before last names and titles become irrelevant, at least in one’s own mind) and it had been the first time that Will could remember wanting to feel someone’s touch, someone’s skin against his own, warm and soft and alive, even if it was for something like this.  
And he never thought it would ever, ever become something more than some sick, twisted fantasy, something he would indulge himself when everything got too much, but everything is too much now, all of the time, and what started as occasional dreams turned to a permanent desire, a wish so strong it makes his skin itch and crawl.  
He has tried to do it himself, to make himself forget, because really, how can another holding the rope make that much of a difference, but it wasn’t the same. It had still been him in control, still him acting and deciding and doing, and it had been all wrong.

Maybe that had been the last straw, the one thing which has brought him here, waiting for the reaction to a request which should be unthinkable to make. Obviously, Hannibal will refuse, probably will declare him mentally unstable and file a request for him to be sent off to some hospital, because for god’s sake, Will has just asked him to assist him with his _suicide_.  
Because that is what it is, when everything else is stripped away, the hunger and longing for peace and the times Will has come into his own hand thinking about it, he wants someone to force the breath from his lungs, and with that, the life as well.  
He wants Hannibal to kill him, Will thinks and finds that the thought rouses strangely little emotions in him, as if he has known that for a while now, without realising it.

“Will, what is it you want me to do?”, Hannibal asks and at first Will thinks that maybe, he has only imagined actually saying those words out-loud, but there is a quiet kind of understanding in the other’s eyes which Will has not expected and oh, Hannibal just wants to make sure that he means it.  
“I want you to strangle me.” It sounds like the most natural thing in the world, saying it, and at the same time like the filthiest, most debauched one he could ever ask for.  
Hannibal waits, contemplates for a few moments and Will can’t tear his gaze away from his hands, can’t help but imagine them around his neck.  
“Have you been fantasizing about this?”, the other asks, and for a wild second, Will wants to stand up and strangle _him_ , because yes, of course he has been fantasizing about this, he needs it and he needs it now, and without more talk, without more analysing. He needs those eyes look down at him while he is gasping, writhing beneath the other, while he is fighting and losing, needs them to watch when he finally _lets go_.

“Look, I shouldn’t have asked, I know, I’ll just…” Nothing happens and Will is not going to keep taunting himself with looking at Hannibal’s hands and his eyes and his lips, knowing there is no way he’ll get what he wants, so instead he gets up, turns away. It’s not disappointment, it’s deeper, it’s more desperate and maybe, just maybe his own hands will do. His own belt.

“Stay.” The word is uttered so softly that it’s hardly a command anymore, and yet Will reacts as if it was, freezing on the spot, his heart beating faster.  
“I did not say I would not help you”, Hannibal continues and Will shivers because the voice is closer now, which means that Hannibal is closer and for now, that is enough. “But I need to know if this is truly what you want.”  
There is relief, there is lust, and Will closes his eyes, gasps out, “Yes.”  
It’s more of a moan, more of a plea than an answer, but it is all Will can manage at the moment, because he needs, he needs this so much.

Hannibal’s touch is soft when he leads him over to the sofa, his eyes dark and unreadable, and Will’s mind is chanting _yes yes yes yes_ without end, as if it was the only thing he could still concentrate on. And it is, in some way, because there are no emotions but his own left inside of him, no lurking horrors, just the dip of the cushions when Hannibal kneels down beside him.  
The other’s gaze doesn’t falter, Will notices, not once, fixed on his face instead of his throat, of Hannibal’s own hands and it is a strangely touching gesture. Maybe this is why it has to be Hannibal, this or whatever it is which seems to always draw him closer and closer to the other man.  
Back in his mind, a voice is screaming that he shouldn’t make Hannibal do this, and that Hannibal, no matter how unconventional a doctor he is, shouldn’t agree to this, that this is all wrong, but Will hasn’t properly slept in a week, just tossed and turned between visions of cords and ropes and even if Hannibal won’t finish this –which is the most likely thing- he still won’t waste the chance.

And then there is a touch, almost hesitant, and Will cranes his neck, allows Hannibal to wrap long, strong, talented fingers around his throat. It’s exactly how Will imagined it, warm and soft and alive as Hannibal’s fingers slide in place as if this was where they always belonged. The thumbs find a spot beside his Adam’s apple, the other fingers curl around his neck and for a second they just stay there, stroking the hair on the nape of his neck.  
It’s intimate, almost a lover’s touch and this time, Will knows what Hannibal wants to say ( _Are you sure?)_ before the other can form the words and nods, because he doesn’t want to waste his breath with words right now, just like he doesn’t want Hannibal to waste his.

The pressure is light at first and yet, Will feels himself shiver, his hands clutching at the soft leather of the sofa, unable to find purchase and yet searching it. He could still breathe easily, but doesn’t, because he is too busy feeling, too busy watching Hannibal’s face above him, strangely calm and collected as he increases the pressure until Will can feel the pads of his thumbs digging into his flesh.  
For a second, Will wonders if the other can feel his pulse underneath his palms.  
It hurts, but in a strangely calming way, unlike the sharp cutting of the rope when he had tried to do this to himself, duller, better in a way.  
It feels like the life is squeezed out of him and feels as sweet as it sounds.

The blood is thrumming in his ears and it’s calming, because beneath it, Will can still hear the other’s laboured breaths, his own gaping ones which seem to become shorter by the second. Hannibal’s eyes are still calm and it’s comforting, especially when the other tightens his grip and the pain gets worse, more intense.  Maybe it is bones breaking, Will thinks, but Hannibal is a doctor, and surely he knows a way to do this without damaging him too badly, and that too, is comforting.  
By now, he is sure that Hannibal has to feel his pulse because he has cut off the blood supply to his brain, or at least slowed it down, because there are stars and sparks dancing along at the edges of his vision, slowly taking over and up until now, it’s the only thing which is wrong, which is not like Will wants it to be, because he needs to see Hannibal’s face when he lets go, when he finally falls.

He only knows that he is clutching at the other’s arms when he sees his own hands, tugging at the sleeves, desperately and helplessly, some last bit of life of him, fighting against being smothered, but Hannibal doesn’t stop, instead increases the pressure, and the stars get larger, more until Will can’t care about his own hands anymore, only about Hannibal’s, about how the fingernails dig into his neck, surely leaving bloody, red imprints which Will would love to see, but won’t.

Somehow, watching what he can still see of Hannibal’s face is making it clear that he won’t stop, that this is not a game, that he gets what Will wants, how badly he wants it and that he is willing to help, and if Will still had enough air in his chest to form words, he would thank the other.

It’s not only his neck which hurts by now, it’s his neck and his chest and his eyes, which feels as if they’re about to burst, to pop out of their sockets, but Will is getting too light-headed to care.  
And that is the sweetest feeling, being too far removed from everything to care, even his own skin, his own life.  
For a moment, the image of the girl flits through his mind which is racing right now, as if it wants to make up for all the thoughts it will not have the time to think of now, and he smiles, or at least he thinks he does.  
Hannibal above him is framed by stars and black creeping in, slowly pulling Will in and Hannibal away, and suddenly Will realises that there is a trace of soft, tender sadness in the other’s gaze. He wants to reach out and brush it away, because he wants Hannibal to be calm and collected and strong like always, but he has forgotten how to move.  
Will allows himself to take another breath, one which he knows he won’t have the chance to exhale, and asks himself how he can ever thank Hannibal for letting him go to sleep.

 


End file.
